


rivers and roads

by gearyoak



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hostage Situations, blood mention, fallout new vegas au, non important character death, nothing too graphic i don't think, tags will be added as the story progresses, there's a gunshot wound but I don't go into detail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:41:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearyoak/pseuds/gearyoak
Summary: If McCree had been aware that the package he'd been carrying would have gotten him shot in the head, he would have turned the job down, even with the outrageous pay. In the end, he decided that dwelling on the should've's and could've's was a waste of time; what's done was done. All that was left for him now was finding the one who did it, and finding out why they'd done it at all - and get his package to New Vegas once he had that sorted. He was still technically under contract, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if you follow me on tumblr you know I'd sell my soul for a fnv remaster. so, instead of crying and mourning for what will never be, I did this.
> 
> I'm not sure you would have had to play the game to understand what's going on since I plan on staying pretty linear with the story. if anything you might just have too look up a few creatures or smth like that. most of the characters I mention will be taken place by some overwatch heroes, but a few will remain canon for lack of a larger cast.
> 
> edit: the new title is from the song by the head and the heart that goes by the same name

He remembered the taste of dirt in his mouth, painted skulls, and the blurry vision of a woman in a checkered lilac suit.

  


=+=

  


According to the bot himself, he’d been rolling around Goodsprings for near decades. No one since then had stayed alive long enough to confirm or deny this unfortunately, but no one felt it necessary to question too much. Besides cover the dirt roads in tire tracks, the bot didn’t harm anyone or cause any sort of trouble. He even helped in his own ways here and there, defending the town from critters and the occasional troublemaker.

  


In fact, the first notable thing he had ever done was dig Jesse McCree out of his grave.

  


=+=

  


Doc Amari was not exactly pleased to see either of the two that early in the morning. Victor didn’t notice her displeasure, nor did he seem too concerned for the near-corpse he had in his arms. His screen still displayed the smiling cowboy, and the voice leaving the speakers was as chipper as always. Amari sighed, too tired and surprised by the early visit to say much. She instructed the robot to bring the man in - the doorway proved to be an issue due to the wide structure of the bot, but he made do - and set him on the stretcher she always had ready in the living room of her home.

  


The man had been shot in the head. Honest-to-god bullet through the brain. The only thing strange about it, however, was that he managed to still be breathing. She had no way of knowing how long it’d been since the shooting, but judging by the amount of blood covering his skin, the man was gambling on a high stake game. Doc Amari gathered her necessary supplies while Victor called out his pleasant goodbye’s and struggled out the door. The needle and old fishing wire were set aside for now, but she kept the half empty bottle of whiskey and tweezers close. Her hands weren’t as steady as they used to be, but she’d do her best to set this man right.

  


Ana Amari took a swig of whiskey in an attempt to wake herself up and got to work.

  


=+=

  


His heartbeat stabilized not too long after the surgery, a miracle on its own with what she had been working with, and grew stronger in the passing time. Other than that, he remained still, never moving besides the rise and fall of his chest. That she expected. She claimed the rest would be left up to time, told the folks around town the same thing when they asked about him.

  


It was days before the man finally regained consciousness. Amari heard him stirring early in the morning when she got around to boiling water for the day, but it wasn’t until late in the afternoon when his eyes opened at last. She sat in the chair across from the couch she had moved him to, watching him gather his bearings.

  


He groaned once, and from there sluggishly moved his arms until they were able to heave himself into a sitting position. Amari didn’t like how he went an equal part green and pale in the face, so she reached out to help him steady.

  


“Easy now, boy,” she said, a firm hand placed on his shoulder. He blinked at her owlishly before pinching his eyes closed, probably from the sudden intake of light. “Couple of days out cold is not going to see you out the door that simply. Just relax for one moment.”

  


He was responsive for the most part, but suffering a wound as potentially damaging as he did, she doubted she’d get anything more than expressions from him.

  


Still, didn’t hurt to try. 

  


“What’s your name, boy?” Amari asked, sitting back down in her chair.

  


The man continued to rub at his eyes for a moment, and briefly she wondered if he could even hear her. “McCree,” he said at last, voice croaked and drier than the desert outside.

  


Her eyebrows raised just slightly, as did her lips. “Hm. Not what I would have named you,” she told him, if only to see what he would do. She watched him feel at the stitches running across his scalp then pull away to see if there was blood. When he was sure there wasn’t any, he blinked up at Amari in question. “No harm meant. If that’s your name, then it’s your name.”

  


“It is,” McCree assured.

  


“My name is Ana Amari, but everyone is fine calling me Doc Amari. Welcome to Goodsprings.” She stood again to fetch a cup of water from the freshly boiled pot on the stove, handing it to McCree. When she was sure he wouldn’t drop it, she returned to her seat in front of him.

  


McCree eyed her the entire time, but didn’t refuse the drink.

  


He was quiet for the most part, only speaking up when Amari questioned him. She seemed thoroughly impressed with his responses. With every answer, Amari’s lips pursed and her brow furrowed, but she nodded to herself each time.

  


“You’ll have to forgive me,” she stated, catching on to McCree’s confusion toward her reactions. “I’m used to patching up people, even one’s with head injuries like yours, but having them be able to form a coherent thought let alone speak clearly? That’s something that does not happen often.” She smiled, more sardonic than friendly. “I would say you’re a lucky man, McCree, but if you were so lucky, you wouldn’t have gotten shot in the head in the first place.”

  


McCree doesn’t laugh or smile along with her. “What do you know about the person who shot me?”

  


“That they were alive a few nights ago, that they shot you, and that there is always a chance they might still be alive.”

  


“So, not much.”

  


“Not much, no.” Another one of those smiles. “You’d get more from the other folks around town.”

  


With that, Amari stood, but doesn’t beckon McCree to follow her. He leaned back into the couch as she started to move in between the rooms of her home, rolling the cup of water back and forth in his hands. It’s a touch warmer than room temperature when he drank it, his throat scolding him for downing it as fast as he did.

  


By the time Doc Amari returned, McCree had finished grimacing through the pain. With her she had brought an armful of things, most of it McCree recognized as his own belongings.

  


“Didn’t mean to pry, but I looked through that note I found on you. I was hoping it was a letter from family or at least a friend so they can come for you.” She handed him each item one by one while she spoke, waving the piece of paper before giving it to him to indicate what she meant. “But it was just some delivery order about a - a platinum chip?” Amari shrugged. She waited for McCree to sort through everything and pack it neatly into the leather messenger bag he’d been given before she went on.

  


“Much obliged.”

  


“I’m not used to living with anyone as of late, so now that there’s no sense of keeping you in bed, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to turn you on your own.” She stepped forward to help McCree stand and was relieved to find out that he only accepted the help out of politeness. Some water and a few chems and her patients are out the door. The desert always had ways of shaping folk up. “Now, I don’t want you spreading word about how cruel old Doc Amari is, kicking you out after waking up from a coma,” she said as they walked together toward the door.

  


McCree interrupted her with, “Wouldn’t think of doin’ such a thing, ma’am.”

  


Amari laughed, smiling something real for the first time. “Aren’t you a charmer? Still, if I knew I sent you out to the Mojave with nothing but some bobby pins and a stim, I wouldn’t sleep at night - well. Wouldn’t sleep  _ much _ , and at my age, I need all the rest I can get.”

  


They stopped at the entryway where Amari turned to a rusted metal shelf set up against one of the walls. A few things were piled there, some ammunition and what McCree recognized as basic energy pistols, spare medical supplies, and a pack of potato crisps. What she grabbed, however, was a tiny machine and a neatly folded set of clothing.

  


“Take this and think nothing of it,” she told him sternly. He accepted it, wiping dust from the screen and twisting the knobs curiously. “It’s called a Pipboy. Growing up in a vault, you were meant to have one. I don’t have use for it anymore.”

  


McCree looked up from the machine once the tone of Doc Amari’s voice registered, but her eyes were downcast. “You’re from a vault?”

  


Her fingers rubbed gently at the blue fabric in her hands, a seemingly subconscious act, smiling even though her eyes turned harder than stone. “I was, yes. Here.” She pushed the clothing into his chest so he was obligated to take it from her, the previous conversation forced to be set aside. “So no one has to see the hair on your chest.”

  


The vault suit was an odd fit, but it was loose where it counted and fit well where he needed it. He slid on the Pipboy after, adjusting the tether until rested where it should on his wrist. Amari watched with a careful eye to ensure that he did it right. She was giving it away, sure, but Pipboys were hard to come by and she’d be damned if this man damaged it within thirty seconds of owning it.

  


Once he seemed settled with his new gear, McCree looked to Amari for further instruction. She laughed again. “Don’t looked so overwhelmed, boy. You’re in good hands as long as you’re in town.”

  


McCree found himself grinning just a little in return, unable to  _ not _ like this woman. “Thank ya kindly, ma’am.”

  


“Of course.” Amari headed for the door, McCree at her heels. “If you plan on searching for the people who shot you, I would stop by the saloon first. Folk around there know more than they should, if you ask me. Hana Song is sure to be there as well. She’ll help you get back on your feet so you don’t get knocked off them once you’re in the desert.”

  


McCree thanked her again for what felt like the thousandth time - though he doubted it would ever amount to what she did for him - and reached for the doorknob.

  


“McCree?”

  


“Yes, ma’am?”

  


“I’m throwing you out now, but do not mistake this for hostility.” Ana Amari’s face was aged and sand-worn, but she had life in her eyes that burned intensely, passion and strength. “I know what it’s like to have something taken from you. If you think of something I can help you with, I will be here, and I will do all I can.” 

  


McCree left Doc Amari’s house and stepped onto the sand of the Mojave Desert, the number 21 on his back feeling heavier than anything he carried with him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was supposed to be a series of one shots but right now I'm just havin fun with the idea of mccree as the courier. I don't have a beta and I pretty much finished writing all this in a day and edited it right after so it's most likely choppy and rushed, but if you see something horribly wrong, let me know.
> 
> also, as a side note, if you're reading this and have zero clue what's going on because you've never played new vegas or a fallout game in general, I highly HIGHLY recommend checking out [oxhorn](https://www.youtube.com/user/ClassyManIAm) on youtube. he does a ton of amazing videos going in depth with lore and the story of everything from all the fallout games. he's great and I love him, check him out if you want!

The sun was as it should be in the wasteland; high in the sky with an intent to kill rather than sustain. McCree squinted at the brightness, using a hand to shield his vision as he transitioned from Doc Amari’s low-lit home to the harsh burn.

The town, Goodsprings, wasn’t much. It was a decent size, but only because the occupied houses were few and far in between, the rest of the buildings crumbling husks from a time before him. The ones still standing looked about ready to join them when the next hard wind rolled by, what with the recent-looking patchwork and lopsided foundations. Still, they had a stubborn quality to them, something that was mirrored in the people McCree caught sight of milling about. No one smiled when they looked his way, but they were friendly enough; quaint like their town.

Goodsprings was not the place one expected to get murdered, that McCree was sure of.

Gravel crunched underneath a single tire, drawing closer to where he stood on Doc Amari’s doorstep. The figure approaching him was shadowed at first, as it had its back toward the sun, but McCree didn’t need much of his eyesight to distinguish the bot. When it wheeled to a stop at the foot of the walkway, he was able to make out the cartoonish features of the grinning cowboy on the bot’s screen. He’d never seen a unit like this one, he was sure, but before he could question it a voice emitted from the bot’s speakers.

“Howdy, partner,” it exclaimed, it’s southern drawl more pronounced than even McCree’s. “Might I say, you’re lookin’ fit as a fiddle.” McCree could do nothing but stare for a moment, watching the bot roll back and forth to maintain its balance in near awe. When the silence droned on for too long, the bot spoke again. “Ooh, maybe not. Well, ‘least you’re on your feet, partner, that’s all you coulda hoped for after the deviltry you were in.”

“Beg your pardon - sir," he apologized, adding the last part in an awkward haste. “I ain’t never seen a robot like you before, is all.”

“You haven't? Well, I'll be! I’m a Securitron, RobCo security model 2060-B,” the bot told him, sounding far too pleased with himself with the chance to relay that information to another. “If you see any of my brothers, tell them Victor says howdy.”

McCree nodded once with an easy grin. “I’ll be sure to do that, sir. Do you know where I’d find the town’s saloon?”

“Well, sure, friend.” Victor made a swift, two-point turn to face the road behind him and gestured toward it with one of his long arms. “Just follow that there road and it’ll be the last building on your left.”

“Much obliged.”

“Plannin’ on havin’ a few drinks before you leave?” Victor asked conversationally when McCree made no move to follow his directions. “Reckon you’d be on your way to find the rascals that shot ya, didn’t expect you to stay in town much longer.”

“That’s the plan. You wouldn’t know anything about them, would you?”

“Just that they’re a shady lookin’ bunch. I was out for a stroll when I saw ‘em at the ol’ bone orchard.”

McCree felt his brow furrow. “You were there that night?”

“Sure was,” Victor confirmed, voice as cheerful as ever, like they weren’t discussing McCree’s attempted murder. The strange tone of the conversation had McCree feeling uneasy but anything the bot knew was valuable, so he asked him to continue. “I heard ‘em causin’ a commotion, but I laid low since they had numbers on me. They ran off after a time, so I got to dig you up and see if you was still kickin’. Turns out, you were, so I hauled you off to the Doc right quick.”

So it was Victor who had initially found him in his grave. McCree had been under the impression that Amari had been the one to drag him out despite never being told so. “Well,” McCree said. “‘Spose I should be thankin’ ya for saving me.”

The bot waved him off. “Don’t mention it! I’m always ready to lend a helping hand to a stranger in need.”

“You’ve been more than a help, Victor,” he assured him. “I’m gonna make my way over to the saloon now, but it’s been a pleasure speakin’ with you.”

“Happy trails,” Victor responded in kind before rumbling back down the road.

McCree watched the dust trail he kicked up in his wake and frowned. It was odd, he thought, for any robot to be rolling around in a small town like Goodsprings, let alone one as strange as Victor. There was a chance he could belong to one of the settlers, built and maintained by a person with time on their hands. McCree looked around him again at the Bighorners and the farmers tending to them. No, they were not the industrial type of folk. He didn't think Victor was any type of dangerous, or else he doubted he'd still be rolling around town, but there was something curious about him.

=+=

McCree found Hana Song where Doc Amari said he would: in the back of the Saloon leaned up against a dingy pool table. He nodded politely at the woman behind the bar and made his way over to the girl, but only barely crossed the threshold of the back room before a deep snarl held him in his tracks.  An impressively massive dog slunk from around the table, head low and teeth bared with its wide eyes locked right on McCree. He grimaced at it; he didn’t want to have to kill a dog.

“Meka, stay,” the girl commanded. The dog immediately withdrew, and even lolled out its tongue, appearing like a totally different creature from the one that threatened him a moment ago. Hana offered him a smirk, which he guessed was meant to be apologetic. “Don’t worry. She only bites when I tell her to.”

He raised a brow but otherwise kept his expression neutral. “Well, that’s good to hear. Doc Amari sent me after you, said you’d help me get by in the desert,” he explained, still keeping one eye on the dog, Meka, but only because she was sat at an odd angle to gnaw at an itch on her leg.

Hana nudged her to get her to quit. “Yeah. There’s a some things I could probably teach you. After getting shot in the head, there might be a few things you’d need help with,” she laughed.

“There sure is, miss.”

“Meet me outside behind the saloon, then. I gotta go grab something.” She whistled shortly, grabbing the attention of Meka, who’d continued to pester with the spot on her leg. “C’mon, Meka.”

McCree followed her out back, but stayed behind as instructed. He leaned against the fencing and tried to ignore the way his fingers itched for something to do. Was it unorthodox to ask a doctor for a pack of smokes? Maybe there was a store he could visit before it got too late.

With no desire to let anxiousness jitter his bones, he immersed himself with the Pip-Boy on his wrist. It didn’t take long to get used to the constant weight of it like he thought he would, and it was relatively easy to get the grasp of. He transcribed the note Doc Amari had said she found on him while he waited, as paper didn’t tend to hold long during travels. It was the only tangible piece of evidence that tied him to the woman who'd shot him besides the scar itself; too important to have ruined.

He read it over carefully, hoping to find some clue as to why someone would try and kill him for what he had been carrying. It seemed horribly insignificant of a package to be worth stealing. It was oversized for a poker chip, yes, but it still wasn’t a great amount of platinum. There were more valuable materials to pillage in the Mojave. McCree was sure it was the caps in the job. He remembered it was the reason he took the job as gladly as he did, and the 250 cap bonus upon delivery was the metaphorical wax seal. Except, McCree thought, the woman didn't seem short on money, unless she made a business of murdering couriers on the job for their pay, which he would have heard about. There had to be a reason for his attack, but no matter how many times he read over the delivery order, he couldn't put it together.

Hana and Meka returned with a crate full of empty bottles and an extra rifle. The glass clinked together when she dropped them by McCree’s boots and she shouldered off the rifle, handing it to him without preamble. “A 9mm is only going to get you so far in the desert,” she explained, and then proceeded in balancing the bottles on top of the fence. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

She wasn’t wrong; the rifle was not much at all. It was practically held together by duct tape and McCree could tell it was prone to jamming just by looking at it. He had dealt with worse, though.

Once enough bottles sat in a precarious line, Hana stepped back a good three yards and beckoned McCree to follow. “Go ahead and take some shots. For me, it’s always easier to aim when I’m crouched; gets you steady and all. The sights might be a bit off, the gun’s probably older than me but - “

She jumped slightly when three of the bottles popped to pieces at a rate that few could manage with the busted old varmint rifle. After blinking, she turned her gaze slowly to McCree and regarded him with a raised brow, like she was ensuring it had been him to shoot the bottles and they hadn’t just been blown off from the wind. “Why didn’t you just tell me you knew your way ‘round a rifle before I set up all those and went on my spiel?”

“Didn’t wanna be rude, miss.”

“Well, what does that make you now, after wasting both of our time?” She smirked again, her tell that she didn’t intend for McCree to take her seriously. “Tell you what, to make it up to me, why don’t you help me clear out some geckos at the watering hole? There’d be caps in it for you, and some more  _ practice _ with that rifle.”

=+=

The geckos weren’t much of a scare. Hana explained that they weren’t a rare occurrence, either. The creatures looked to be about waist high and awkward on their feet, but they moved quick enough by the looks of it. Their teeth were probably the worst about them, but McCree didn't expect to let them close.

Hana splashed some water onto the dirt when they’d been hugged close to a rock just in front of the nest, dipping two fingers into the new mud and drawing two, reddish streaks across each of her cheeks.  “Alright,” she said, raising her own gun, looking as giddy as Meka at the opportunity of action. “You take the first shot.”

Unbeknownst to McCree, she had kept score of how many of the oversized reptiles they’d downed each. She let him know, when they reconvened at a nearby campfire, that he had lost by a five ‘tile gap. By then, the mud on her cheeks had dried, so it cracked and chipped when she grinned at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you, even if you lost. Nobody’s beaten me before, anyway.”

Hana Song wasn’t odd by the Mojave’s standards, but McCree wouldn’t think of her as unforgettable, of that he was sure.

The sun had sunk low by the time they made it back to Goodsprings; less people out and the roads were warmly-lit from oil lamps set in the windows of homes. Victor still rolled around, busy with trekking up the hill with a windmill and wooden crosses sat atop it. McCree watched him as they walked.

“That’s Victor,” Hana said when he stopped responding to her idle conversation with his one-worded answers.

“We’ve met.”

“Odd, ain’t he? Trudy says he’s creepy, but I don’t know. He doesn’t do anything.”

“Where’d he come from?”

She shrugged, “No one really knows. People say his owner used to live here, but we don’t know if they died or just left him when they ditched town.” McCree grunted. Hana seemed satisfied enough to change the subject. “I’m gonna head back. If I missed anything good on the jukebox, Meka would be pissed. You should stop by. Trudy would chew me out if she knew I didn’t send you her way; she likes meeting new people.”

“Sure thing, miss,” McCree said.

The door to Prospector Saloon swung open when they made it to the entryway, crashing loudly against the siding of the building. A man stepped out, cursing thickly under his breath, but his mouth snapped shut when he caught eyes with Hana. He glowered, but mostly withered under the girl’s hard stare, and McCree raised a brow at him. He was dressed like he was ready for a fight, heavy padded vest strapped to him, but upon closer inspection, McCree thought he must’ve already been in one. There were stains on his pants, rich and dark; blood. He didn't seem to be the Goodsprings type.

The man hurried passed them, holding their stares uneasily until his back was to them. He continued down the street briskly, and McCree just barely made out the N.C.R.C.F. printed in bold, white letters across the shoulder of his riot vest.

Hana scoffed and shook her head, looking irritated by the encounter. Before McCree could ask her what exactly had happened, she practically stormed inside the saloon with a quick, “ _ Good luck, McCree _ ”, Meka at her heels.

Once he had collected himself, he made his way inside, shutting the door behind him. The same woman was behind the bar still, looking a little miffed herself. She was straightening her short, cropped hair in a huff, but there didn’t appear to be any evidence that there’d been a real scuffle. McCree decided he wouldn’t bother her further on broaching the subject of the man; based on her and Hana’s reaction to him, he was not well liked. That was enough for McCree.

She seemed glad for the distraction, because the tenseness in her features eased a little when he took a seat at the counter. “You’ve been causin’ quite a stir,” she told him, more of an accusation than a statement. “Glad I finally got to meet you,” she added on anyway. “Name’s Trudy, welcome to the Prospector Saloon.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

“Don’t mention it. Can I get you anything?”

McCree opened his mouth, but the request of beer got caught in his throat. He wouldn’t call himself exceptionally knowledgeable in the medical field, but even he knew that drinking wasn’t the smartest thing to do a day or two after getting shot in the head. “Nuka-Cola,” he said, “if you got it, ma’am.”

“Sure thing.”

The bottle she served him wasn’t cold, and it was flat like most cola one would find in the wasteland, but it was as refreshing as anything. He laid down the two caps for it on the counter and sipped from it slowly, enjoying the music that drifted in from the back room. Trudy sighed, still looking weary, and slid an ashtray from the other side of the bar closer to her, pulling a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in her dress. She flicked at a rusted flip lighter and sighed again at the first drag, seemingly out of relief this time. McCree watched on enviously as the smoke curled around before her before it dissipated.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Trudy said, starting to back away. “It’s probably rude of me to smoke in front of you after the injury you had, isn’t it?”

He doubted that a little secondhand smoke would affect whatever healing process was left for him. Drinking was different, it did something to the brain. Smoking was just the lungs. That’s what he told himself, at least. “It’s only rude if you don’t share, ma’am,” he said back, mostly joking but a little hopeful.

Trudy laughed, lucky for him, and offered him the pack, which he took from, then her lighter. He thanked her, breathing in the stale smoke. It was good, but the taste was off, something that didn’t have to do with the age. Still, it held him over, and his shoulders felt less stiff.

“Speakin’ of my injury,” he started, ashing off the cig into the tray, “I’m trying to track ‘em down, the men who shot me. I was hopin’ you could help set me on my way. Know anything about ‘em?”

“Not much, other than they’re a bunch of freeloaders who expected free drinks out of me. I got them to pay, though.” She smiled a little, smug, but it turned sour in the next second. “Of course, one of the Los Muertos did knock my radio to the floor  _ by accident _ .” She rolled her eyes, leading McCree to believe that that wasn’t the case at all. Mournfully, she eyed the radio on the counter behind her. “It hasn’t been working since.”

McCree furrowed his brow in solidarity of her mood and set his cigarette between his lips, gesturing toward it. Trudy handed the radio off to him and watched absentmindedly as he popped the back casing off and began to fiddle with it. “Who’re the Los Muertos?”

“As far as I know, they’re enemies of the NCR. Don’t know too much, they mostly stay in their territory up in the northwest. The two that was with the fancy woman, they were probably just hired guns.”

McCree grunted. “They didn’t say where they were goin’, did they?”

“They seemed to be havin’ some kind of argument about it, but the ringleader - fancy girl in the checkered coat - she kept shushin’ them.” Trudy looked up in thought, tapping her cig on the ashtray rhythmically. “From what I remember, it sounded like they’d come in from the north through Quarry Junction. If that’s the case, I can imagine why they didn’t want to go back.”

“Why’s that?”

“The whole area is full of critters that just get pissed off if you shoot ‘em. People treat it like it’s radioactive - which it probably is, for all I know.”

After making sure everything was secure with the innards, McCree slid the casing to the radio back in place and flicked it on. Frank Sinatra’s voice crackled from it before the frequency settled, his notes coming out smooth. Trudy smiled at it happily, taking it from McCree and set it back in its spot on the counter. “So where were they headed?”

“I didn’t hear exactly,” she said “but the leader was talking about the Strip. If she wanted to get there and avoid the 15, she’d have to go east. Take Highway 93 up.”

McCree finished his drink and thanked her, leaving with a few bottles of Nuka-Cola on the house for the fixed radio. Once back out on the porch, he pulled up the map on his Pip-Boy and found the stretch of road he’d have to walk to find his way to the woman in the checkered suit. He hesitated before he powered down the screen, then flipped on his own radio.

He set off under the stars, the tinny, rumble of a man as his only company on the road.

_ Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our program. This is Mr. New Vegas, and each and every one of you is wonderful in your own special way. I’ve got news for you. Troubling news from Primm, as merchants report a large presence of armed and unsavory figures patrolling the town. Residents are nowhere to be found. More news for you: A package courier found shot in the head near Goodsprings has reportedly regained consciousness, and has made a full recovery. Now that is a delivery service you can count on. That’s the news. This is Mr. New Vegas, filling in for Mr. New Vegas. Mojave, mo’ problems. _

_ Am I right? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me over at [konsawriter](https://konsawriter.tumblr.com/) on tumblr so you can preemptively block me before I get back on my bullshit ;)
> 
> also, if you see something that isn't tagged that should be or - again - a spelling mistake or a continuity error, lemme know homie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. bbbbbeeeennnnn a while
> 
> so I wrote most of this, again, in like one or two days, edited it right after, and here we are. there's gonna be a lot of mistakes, so if you catch any super obvious ones, lemme know. apologies also if this is just like a mess lmao I have no excuses except that I rlly wanna write mccree getting to new vegas so if you feel like everything is rushed...it's because it is
> 
> thanks for stopping by, enjoy yourselves, or don't. I'm not ur dad

_ “From where you’re kneeling, this must look like an eighteen karat run of bad luck.” She said this while gesturing with her gun, the metal of it shining against the lanterns. It wasn’t too bright, but his head throbbed and the shine squeezed at his brain. When he didn’t make a move or try to say anything, just squinted up at the woman, she crouched down and patted his face twice, like a mother with a petulant child. “Ay, pobrecito…” _

_ The smirk could be heard in her voice, he didn’t have to stare to see it. He couldn’t look away. _

_ She gave a theatrical sigh and a played-up shrug when she stood again. “Truth is… the game was rigged from the start.” The woman pointed the gun, and he stared down the barrel. She didn’t stop smiling, he didn’t look away. _

_ She fired. _

=+=

The walk to Primm was not a long one. Before the sun rose over the hills, McCree could make out the few buildings and the winding track of a wooden roller coaster behind them. It was a pleasant surprise, as he thought he’d be going further than that before he reached another settlement. He made a mental note to study the Pip-Boy’s mapping system thoroughly to learn the roads better. Unreliable distances meant unreliable food and water rations, a dangerous mistake.

Mr. New Vegas’s voice carried him over the final hill, dipping straight into an overpass, the bridge leading to the entrance of the town on the left. McCree stayed right so he could cross once he reached it and kept his eyes on the cityline. There were no lights on, which he guessed wasn’t very odd, seeing as it was hardly five in the morning. It was doubtful a lot of people would be awake.

“Hey!”

McCree jolted and reached for the pistol at his hip. The shout had come from in front of him and was followed by a man hurrying toward his direction, dressed in a military esque uniform the same color as the dirt that dusted his boots.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The soldier demanded, stopping a good distance away from McCree. “Primm is off limits to civilians. Head back to Goodsprings or  _ wherever  _ you came from - before you get shot.”

McCree regarded him with an unimpressed look. “‘Preciate the concern, sir, but I can take care of myself.”

It was the trooper’s turn to raise a brow, giving McCree a once over. “I have my orders.”

“What’s goin’ on in Primm that needs stayin’ away from?” He asked instead of rolling his eyes.

The man appeared to age several years at just hearing the question, obviously troubled and doing a poor job of hiding it. “Convicts broke out of the prison up the road, took over the town. Anyone there is either dead or boarding up their windows. That, and the tribes of raiders causing trouble in the nearby areas.” He lifted up the goggles attached to his helmet to rub at his eyes and sighed deeply, exhausted. McCree would have felt bad for him if he’d liked him. “You really would be better off heading back.”

McCree looked back to the military camp he had not noticed during his approach. In the rising sunlight, the tents appeared to be more stones and collapsed homes against the horizon, but now that he was made aware it was hard to ignore. A few other men and women strolled around tiredly in matching gear as the man before him. His eyes were drawn toward the flag hanging limp above it all, and then the wind blew and he saw it: a two headed bear. NCR, the New California Republic. A democracy, expanding its uninvited reach from what was left of California. McCree thought he must’ve worked for them a few times, because he only knew them for their money.

“Shouldn’t you be helping?”

“We’d love to,” the soldier stated, sounding unenthused, “but they don’t fall under NCR jurisdiction. Even if they did, we’re in no shape to provide any support.”

McCree gave the collection of people behind him a pointed look. “You’re not?”

“No equipment, not enough hands to provide backup if need be. The convicts are armed with explosives, they’d slaughter us.” He crossed his arms, seemingly finished with McCree. “If you’ve got any more pressing questions, talk to Lieutenant Hayes. He’s in a tent down the road.” He turned away from McCree and started marching back to his post. “Stay on the west side of the road if you don’t want to get shot,” he called.

=+=

Lieutenant Hayes wasn’t in better spirits than his trooper that sent McCree his way, but he was polite. He greeted McCree with all of his titles that he only half-listened to and told him the same thing the other soldier did but in more detail. Not enough supplies, not enough men, convicts holding the town hostage, nothing they could do.

“They’re taken to calling themselves Powder Gangers,” he had said. “We think it’s because of the explosives meant to clear boulders they had stolen. They organized faster than anyone had thought - well, most of them, at least. This group split off from the main force, so they seem to be on their own.”

“What about the prison?”

“Most people just call it N.C.R.C.F., that’s NCR Correctional Facility. Convicts staged a coup; killed the guards and took over the prison.”

McCree left the tent unsurprised. The wasteland had never been a safe place. Thugs and raiders torturing innocents wasn’t a new development. The idea of basing the group off of an obsession with explosives, though, that was different, McCree had to give them that. He’d seen enough “cannibal” raider groups to last a lifetime.

Still, he thought back to Goodsprings, the man that had intercepted him and Hana at the Prospector Saloon, and the N.C.R.C.F. printed across his back. He hadn’t been dumb enough to think him a real security guard, but his presence in town was more troubling now knowing his origins. McCree retreated back to the overpass, keeping the idea of returning to Goodsprings in mind. But, firstly, he has to make sure there isn’t any trace of the woman in the lilac suit in Primm. If there wasn’t anything he’d be back at square one anyway. 

There was a makeshift blockade on the west side of the bridge made mostly of wood planks and old rubber tires, a woman standing behind it at the post with a rifle in hand. “You’re going in there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She scoffed, like she was surprised someone could be so stupid, and said, “Careful of the mines. Laid ‘em out in case they tried to initiate an attack.”

Most of the buildings he passed were either boarded up or hollowed out, crumbling toward the street. Among the trash and rubble were small pools of dried blood and bullet casings; the NCR hadn’t been overstating the situation in the slightest. The layout of the town - from what he could see as he approached off the bridge - was simple, unlike the winding road and similar buildings of Goodsprings. What was left of the main road was shaped in a ‘T’, headed by a large hotel with the roller coaster he had seen from down the way looming over it. An appropriately shaped sign titled the hotel “ _ The Bison Steve _ ”. 

The front of the building to his left face the heading street, but McCree’s attention was drawn to the square office stood on the opposite side of it. Its roof was outlined by neon-light lettering reading “ _ Mojave Express _ ”. He recognized the company’s name, the very same company that issued the delivery order that had been left on him when he’d been attacked.

A gunshot rang out over his head. He heard the yelling from further in the town when his hearing cleared after the deafening pop. Two men, both dressed in armor that resembled the man’s from Goodsprings, rounded the corner.

“Get the  _ fuck _ outta here,” one hissed, raising his pistol with a wild look in his eyes.

McCree didn’t say anything in return, only retrieved his own weapon in kind. He shot down the second man who had advanced even further than the first with a deadly looking blade. It clattered to the pavement, along with the man’s body, and the other yelled wordlessly. He fired at McCree, but the closest he came was a few bullets whizzing over his head. McCree put him down quick, once in the shoulder, second clean in the head.

They didn’t have much on them in way of supplies besides a few extra caps and ammo. The knife the thug had  _ was _ deadly, but not in the sense that the cut would kill you. Rather, the rust and old blood it left behind would cause some sort of infection that’d finish you off. That, and the fact that the blade wobbled in its hilt, was reason enough to leave it behind. The gun the other had McCree unloaded and dropped in his bag.

When he’s sure no one else was on the streets looking to shoot him in the back, he makes his way to the Mojave Express.

There was a body propped against the side next to the door, a courier, by the looks of the messenger bag strapped around his shoulder, contracted with the NCR. The bag was covered in the same symbol printed on the flag the troopers had stood under. McCree opens the flap, finding a few bottles of clean looking water and flat bread wrapped in an extra t-shirt. McCree transferred the contents into his own bag before coming across a crumpled piece of paper underneath it all.

The ink was smudged in places, but there was no mistaking the contents of the letter. It was nearly an exact match to McCree’s own delivery order; the only difference being the manifest and the delivery order number. This man, Courier Four, was meant to deliver a pair of furry dice. He had no such thing on him, so McCree could only assume he had been stopping in to finish the contract and had been killed for his pay.

McCree folded the paper neatly and set it with his own, and left the man on the street.

=+=

Inside the Mojave Express, there was only an empty space behind the counter to greet him. Everything was silent except for his footsteps on the wooden floors, so he didn’t call out, not expecting anyone to be out back. It was a normal express office as far as he could tell; cleaner than most but McCree had a sneaking suspicion that was due to the raiders picking houses apart for supplies.

Besides crates of papers and bottles, the only thing interesting on the counter was a rather large piece of metal. It must have been some type of robot, he decided upon closer inspection, round and a little bigger than a dodgeball. He’d never seen anything like it before, had no idea what sort of function the little bot was supposed to be capable of - or how it would even function in the first place. Was it made to roll around? He doubted that, the several antennae melded in its base would make that difficult. He rolled it over to its side, revealing a miniature ventilation system on what he supposed was the bot’s underside. For cooling - or maybe a propulsion system so the bot hovered a few feet off the ground, maneuvering that way.  _ A flying robot _ . Yes, McCree definitely wanted to see that bot working.

He ran his fingers over the metal casing, over a bullet hole, and against the plastic of a bumper sticker plastered on its side. It was bright red, even with a layer of dirt, and the lettering was blocky, reading ‘ _ Roosevelt Academy; A Proud Bastion of American Ideals! _ ’, all white besides the large, bolded word ‘ _ Bastion _ ’ in a gaudy yellow. There was a license plate on the other side of the bot, number itself unintelligible. The only thing that was left untarnished was the  _ Great Midwest, Illinois, 2062 _ .

As far as he could tell, there was no serious damage to the bot. There was no doubt it had seen some action, though, if the bullet holes were anything to go by. Whoever worked in this building had apparently tried their own repairs; piles of screws and scrap metal were strewn about the countertop, along with a few tools. McCree retrieved a screwdriver from the pile and opened the outer casing of the bot and peered inside. He grunted to himself. There were servos and gyroscopes that looked twisted and out of place, probably in need of recalibrating, something he’d be able to do himself if he had the know-how. He didn’t. What he could do, however, was replace the parts that needed fixing. What was laying around would be useful, but he needed more if he wanted to see this bot - hopefully - in the air.

Across the street from the Mojave Express building was something called the Vikki and Vance Casino. All of the windows were boarded up, and the only accessible entrance to the building was through the double doors from the heading street. McCree walked close to the walls and with his eyes on the road rather than in front of him.

Inside was a drastic difference to the exterior and last building he had been in. Countless people were milling about, everyone in the town who survived must have holed up in the casino once the convicts hit. The very entrance served as a barricade to the rest of the casino floor, all the lanterns lent to it to keep it nice and lit. It made the rest of the space difficult to see, as his eyes were still adjusted to the bright sun, which is probably what the folks had been hoping for.

An old man stood from the slot stool where he’d been sitting, not raising the pistol he had in his hand but not loosening his grip on it, either. McCree didn’t go for his own weapon, wanting to convey he meant no threat in the easiest way possible.

“I don’t know what it was that brought you to Primm, youngster,” the man started, voice smoother than what McCree would have expected, looking as worn as the man did, “but you might be wantin’ to rethink your plans. Town’s gone to hell.”

“Didn’t notice,” McCree said quietly, mostly to himself, but the man heard him and seemed to get some type of amusement out of it. “Who are you, if you don’t mind me askin’.”

“Johnson Nash, husband to Ruby Nash. Livin’ in Primm going on eight years now, thick ‘n thin.” He told McCree this all proudly, another smile crossing his features when he mentioned his wife. McCree decided he liked this man, and was glad he didn’t walk in the casino with his gun pulled. “I’m mostly a trader,” Nash continued, “not that that’s worth much with things the way they are. ‘M also in charge of the local Mojave Express Outpost.”

McCree tore his eyes away from where they had wandered as he listened - an old, shot up car on display with a protectron in a tiny cowboy hat patrolling in front of it - and stared back at the man. “I’m a courier with the Mojave Express.”

Nash gave him a strange look. “Well, I don’t have any work right now, sorry to say.”

“No, it ain’t - I lost a package I was supposed to deliver.”

“ _ Oh _ , well alright. I can tell you everything I can. You got a delivery order you can show me?” McCree shouldered his bag over to rifle through it, retrieving the slip of paper and handing it over. Nash read it over and his brow raised, but he didn’t exactly look surprised. “You’re talkin’ about one of  _ them _ packages. That job had strange written all over it, I tell ya, but it wasn’t like we were gonna turn down the caps.”

He handed the paper back to McCree, who returned it back to his bag. “What was strange about it?”

Nash settled back onto his stool, setting his pistol back on his lap and wiping his hands on his dusty overalls with a sigh. “That cowboy robot had us higher six couriers, each one carrying somethin’ a little different. One had a pair o’ dice, another a chess piece - that kind of stuff. Last I heard from the office, payment was received for the other five jobs.” He raised his brow again, nodding at McCree. “Guess it was just you and your chip that didn’t make it.”

“When you say cowboy robot, do y’mean that one?” McCree pointed to the back of the casino and Nash’s eyes followed his to the Protectron shuffling around.

Nash laughed once with a shake of his head, “Nah, that’s Primm Slim. He’s been here longer than me, I’d recognize him. Naw, this feller was much bigger, with a screen showin’ a smilin’ cowboy’s face.”

Victor. So there was no coincidence in the robot’s unlikely presence when he had been attacked, Victor was  _ supposed _ to be there. But why? And no robot would do something on its own prerogative, so who programmed it? Who was watching for McCree?

“The first deadbeat we hired for your job cancelled,” Nash went on when McCree didn’t say anything. “Hope a storm from the Divide skins him alive,” he cursed, and even though McCree had only known him for about five minutes, he was sure this display of anger was uncharacteristic for the man. He seemed to think so, too, because he sighed again and shook his head. “Well, anyway. That’s where you came in.”

“They cancelled?” That was suspicious, like everything else about the whole ordeal. Had they known what would happen if they were to carry the chip?

“Yeah, he got this look on his face when he saw your name down on the courier list, expression got turned right around. Asked me if your name was real, and I said sure as the lack o’ rain, you was still kickin’. Then he turned down the job, just like that. I asked if he was sure - it was good money.” Nash shrugged. “‘Nope, let courier six carry the package,’ that’s what he said.” He gave McCree a long look, and then, grimly, said, “Like the Mojave’d sort you out or something. Then he just up and walked out. Never saw ‘im again.”

The idea of the courier stumped McCree. He knew plenty of people from his line of work, but none that would turn down money for him. At least he didn’t think he did. He accepted that, because of his most recent gunshot wound, he wasn’t as read up on his own history as anyone would like to be with themselves. Some things were fuzzy, others were gone completely. He could know this man, but there was also the possibility that he didn’t know him at all. Just another mystery to solve. 

“Y’know who he was?” McCree asked Nash, already knowing the answer. “Where he went?”

“No idea,” Nash answered, just like McCree thought he would, but he still managed to feel a little disappointed. “Sounded like you two had some history for him to act like that - and turn down the money, too. Hope he didn’t see any trouble in that package of yours. Maybe he thought your name was bad luck.” Ain’t that the fucking truth. “Not for me to say,” the man finished with a shrug.

McCree couldn’t help but heave out a frustrated sigh. He scrubbed at his face, pinched at the bridge of his nose, then sighed again. Nash at least looked a little sorry for him. McCree would take what he could get.

“My package - it was stolen from me,” he informed. “Couple of guys with skulls painted on their faces, a woman in a purple checkered suit. They wouldn’t’ve passed through here, would they?”

Nash looked up, rubbing his chin in thought. “Well, now that ya mention it, a few nights back a townie was out at night scavenging for some supplies. He said he saw a lady in a daisy suit comin’ through with a couple of Los Muertos thugs, talking ‘bout a chip.”

It was something, a big something. It was evidence that he was on the right path, that the people who attacked him were here before and that they were leaving a trail. It should’ve made him happy, but it just made his chest tighten; didn’t ease anything, only filled him with more anticipation.

“That woman, she shot me. I need to know the best way to get to them.”

Nash didn’t seem too hung up on the prospect of McCree getting attacked, just continued to rub at his chin and think for another moment. “Well, the best way to do that would be to talk to Deputy Beagle. He was keepin’ some tabs on ‘em, slinkin’ around Bison Steve when your pretty lady and her thugs rolled through. He may’ve heard where they were goin’.”

McCree nodded, remembering the hotel on the heading street. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

“Don’t mention it. Before you go, lemme warn ya about somethin’,” Nash called as McCree turned for the door. “The Bison Steve, it’s where all the gangsters are holed up. They took Beagle hostage after they killed the sheriff. Guess it took ‘em a go of it to get ransomin’ right.”

“Good to know.”

“Just be careful out there, son.”

McCree smiled. “I can take care of myself just fine,” he assured for the second time that day.

=+=

The interior of Bison Steve was about as one would expect it to be after being overrun by criminals. Garbage cans were knocked over, the floors were covered with the trash from said cans, along with rubble from failing walls. Only a select few lights overhead still worked and even those flickered. There were vending machines that still hummed, though, with a few bottles of cola left. 

McCree navigated the halls of the hotel quietly, picking up those bottles and anything he saw that seemed to work - or had once worked - by using a battery or similarly electronic. The footsteps he heard around him didn’t make him uneasy, but he still waited until he caught each man off guard and alone before he confronted them. The halls were long enough, the were walls thick enough, and was McCree fast enough to handle every convict quietly without causing too much of a commotion.

They hardly carried anything interesting, maybe a few sticks of dynamite and a pocket full of ammo, or a chem or two. Sometimes they had caps, other times they had bills that reminded him of old world cash, but those were printed with newer faces and other symbols. NCR cash. Made sense, them coming from one of the NCR facilities; was probably the only thing the guards had on them in the way of money when the convicts killed them.

From one convict he took the previously stolen guard armor and ventured into one of the hotel rooms in the hall. He tossed the chest piece onto the bed and searched the wardrobe against the wall. McCree appreciated everything Doc Amari had done and given him, but the vault suit she provided did little in way of protecting - from the sun and from bullets. He didn’t expect to find much better in the old clothes he found, but at least he would be more comfortable.

He shouldered off his bag to dress in some faded-from-age jeans and a collared button-up, then folded the vault suit and stuffed it into the bag. The blanket from the bed came with him after he strapped on the chest piece and laced up his boots. He checked it for stains - blood or otherwise before he decided on any worth. It was red and thin, but large enough to wrap around his shoulders and cover the bold N.C.R.C.F. across his back. The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for a powder ganger and be shot down by an NCR trooper later down the road.

With the bag back around his shoulder and dressed in his new rags, McCree felt more like himself than he had since he’d been shot in the head. He adjusted the “homemade” serape to sit more securely and made for the door, but then he saw it. On top of the wardrobe he had rummaged through, seemingly untouched by the havoc around it and pristine as could be, was a desperado cowboy hat. McCree grinned when he pulled it down, gave the brim of it a few whacks to shake off any dust it had collected, and place it on top if his head with a content sigh.

_ Now _ he felt back in his own skin.

=+=

He found Beagle on the bottom floor in the back of the hotel, in the dining area’s kitchen. He was knelt in front of the fridges, hands bound in front of him. He looked ragged, his white hair wild and his face dirty, exaggerated by the pout pulling at his expression.

“I don’t suppose you’re here to rescue me?” He asked, having undoubtedly heard the gunshots that had took place just outside where his captors had been loitering. “I’d cross my fingers, but my hands are numb.”

McCree regarded the sorry looking man with a raised eyebrow. “You must be Deputy Beagle.”

“Why yes I am,” he replied, insolently in turn for McCree’s flatness. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m in a bit of a predicament here. Would appreciate it if you set me free.” Beagle held up his hands wired together, a deliberate gesture.

McCree made no move to untie him. “I hear you might have some information I need, some words about a few Los Muertos and a woman in a purple checkered suit.”

“Indeed I do, good sir, and I would be  _ thrilled _ to share that information with you as soon as I’m freed from captivity. I’m gonna need to be in a calmer emotional state for my memory to function as we need it.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, McCree narrowed his eyes at the man before him just slightly. He absolutely did not want to bother with this conniver after the trouble he’s put him through - Nash did  _ not _ mention the incinerator the leader had been sporting when McCree found him. Unfortunately, Beagle did not waver. With a grumble, the cowboy knelt to mess with the knot, pointedly ignoring Beagle and the victorious glint in his eyes when McCree pulled the bonds free.

“Well, that’s just marvelous.” The deputy stood, shaking out his wrists and flexing his bloodless fingers. “I’ll be makin’ my way outside, now. The airs, ah,” he glanced behind McCree and at the smouldering tables and singed bodies. “Well, it’s a little close in here.”

He checked the kitchen for anything useful, coming out with a few more bottles of water, and met Deputy Beagle outside of the Bison Hotel. He was looking out over the streets with his eyes narrowed and his revolver drawn, looking like a sad excuse for a western hero rather than the man who had just ran through the hotel lobby with his hands over his head in fear.

“Hey, Deputy.”

Beagle jumped, spun around, saw it was McCree, and changed his demeanor back to the calm and suave hero. “Well, that was quite the adventure,” he declared, like he had much to do with it. “We taught those convicts a thing or two, didn’t we?”

McCree decided not to roll his eyes. “Sure.”

“Breaking myself out of a hostage situation - not to diminish your role in the whole thing, of course - but it was quite thrilling. Problem is, there’s still no law in Primm,” he went on, which solidified McCree’s suspicion that Beagle was, in fact, being one hundred percent serious in his claims. He didn’t dare argue, didn’t exactly want to. “What’re we to do the next time ruffians menace us and hold us hostage?”

_ Grow a pair _ , McCree wanted to tell him,  _ learn to use that gun instead of posing with it, quit your hero act, be one instead of pretending,  _ among other things. “If yer boss is dead, don’t that make you the new sheriff?”

Beagle’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I’m just a deputy! And I can’t be a deputy without a sheriff. It’s called  _ chain of command _ .” McCree felt his jaw set firmly. He wanted to hit this man. Beagle chose not to notice this. “We need a new sheriff, someone brave like you, but more of a homebody. Someone with experience who’ll settle down and watch over us.”

“Know anybody who’d fit the requirements?”

“I heard some of the Powder Gangers talkin’ about someone in the prison named Meyers. Said he used to be a sheriff ‘fore he got locked up. Then there’s the NCR just over the bridge, they’re likely to jump at the chance to control another town.”

McCree didn’t like his options. After having just run enough of the criminals out of town, the convict sheriff was a bad idea for obvious reasons. On the other hand, he wasn’t comfortable with turning the town over to the NCR as there were so few independent cities left in the desert. McCree thought back to the tired soldier he had spoken with, the state of the military camp he belonged to, and decided that the NCR wouldn’t do Primm much good, either.

“I’ll help you bring law back to Primm,” he told Beagle anyway. “Just give me some time to find someone.”

Deputy Beagle’s face lit up. “You will? That’s just marvelous! I’ll start thinking up questions for the interview!”

He turned to walk away, heading for Vikki and Vance with an excited bounce in his step before McCree called out to him. “You still owe me some information.”

The man wilted, but only for a moment. “Ah, yes. My memory  _ is _ much clearer now that I’m free.” Again, McCree refused to roll his eyes. “I was sku - uh,  _ performing recon _ on the Powder Gangers when some Los Muertos guys arrived with your friend in the suit. They were talking about some delivery they took from a courier. Assumin’ that was you.”

“Seems about right,” McCree conceded.

“They said they would be headin’ through Nipton to Novac to meet a contact there.”

McCree let him handle his Pip-Boy just long enough to mark the road he needed to walk to follow his attackers’ route, then he was off again. McCree was glad to see him go.

=+=

Before he left town, McCree was sure to stop in and thank Johnson Nash once more, and ask about the robot in his express office. A courier had dropped it off months back, he found out, and Nash got it working again but only for a while. He explained to McCree that he was planning on using it for courier work, but he hadn’t any luck with getting it running again. He gave permission to McCree to tinker with it, and promised him the bot if he got it working. The prospect of a new, fancy toy buzzing around was enough to get him to try. As he left the casino to make his attempt, Nash commented on the fruitlity of the whole thing, said he’d just take it to the Novac scrapyard and be done with it.

McCree ignored him, and worked for the better part of three hours, shocking himself numerous times and cursing out loud more times than that. The machine sputtered to life when the sun began to sink, the casing snapping shut on its own and the body of the bot rotating so it could propel itself into the air. The sudden reaction gave McCree a jolt, stumbling off his stool and onto his feet. He stared at the robot cautiously, not exactly knowing what to expect from it. It would be his luck to have the thing start up on a combat mode.

Instead of incinerating him where he stood, the little robot beeped a few times, tilting down enough as if it was staring at McCree.

“Well,” McCree said, hands on his hips. He nodded at his work and let himself feel proud for a moment. “Would ya look at that.”

The robot beeped again in response.

It seemed to be running fine, it’s flight wasn’t jagged or shaky, and there was no smoke - McCree always took that as a good sign. He grinned, eyes catching on the hideous bumper sticker on the bot’s side once again.

“ _ A Proud Bastion of American Ideals, _ huh?” A confirmatory beep. “Alright, then. Let’s hit the road, Bastion. Could use help like yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if next chapter ends up being as long or longer than this one, we'll be gettin some genji for sure. thats why y'all are here, right? same.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for sticking around this long, friend! if you see any mistakes or need something tagged, let me know!


End file.
